In Troubled Sahel, Memories of a Cinematic Golden Age

A photograph of Rouch is kept in the late French ethnographer and film-maker's former editing room at the Institute for Research in Human Sciences (IRSH) in Niamey - AFP
A photograph of Rouch is kept in the late French ethnographer and film-maker's former editing room at the Institute for Research in Human Sciences (IRSH) in Niamey - AFP
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In Troubled Sahel, Memories of a Cinematic Golden Age

A photograph of Rouch is kept in the late French ethnographer and film-maker's former editing room at the Institute for Research in Human Sciences (IRSH) in Niamey - AFP
A photograph of Rouch is kept in the late French ethnographer and film-maker's former editing room at the Institute for Research in Human Sciences (IRSH) in Niamey - AFP

The wall of a house in Torokorobougou, a district in the Malian capital Bamako, suddenly lights up as a black-and-white film starts to roll.

The audience falls silent as the title of the documentary, "Sigui", flashes up on the screen.

It's one of French director Jean Rouch's seminal films, charting a secret ceremony of central Mali's Dogon ethnic group which is held once every 60 years.

Rouch, who died aged 86 in a road accident in Niger, is the only person to have ever recorded it, AFP reported.

He shot around 140 films over his long career, including many in West Africa and particularly the Sahel state of Niger.

While his work has faced criticism for reflecting the condescending colonial attitudes of the time, the film-maker-cum-ethnographer was a prime mover in the Sahel's cinematic tradition and a champion of local directors.

But memories of Rouch's work are fading, while the once-flourishing movie scene in the semi-arid African region has been battered by a lack of funding.

"He is the grandfather of cinema in Niger," said Moussa Hamidou, the country's first sound producer, who worked on all of Rouch's films.

The Frenchman gave many of Niger's prominent cultural figures their start such as director Oumarou Ganda who in 1969 became the first African to present a film at the Cannes festival.

Hamidou talks cheerfully in his home in Niger's capital Niamey about the artistic milieu that once thrived in the city.

"It was a good time for West Africa," he said, explaining that directors had access to funding.

But the Sahel's cinematic heyday of the 60s and 70s is a now distant memory, with funding having mostly dried up.

Governments across the Sahel are more focused on combating the brutal extremist insurgency, which first emerged in 2012, than cultural pursuits.

In Niamey, film enthusiasts have to rummage through the archives of the Institute for Human Sciences Research (IRSH) to find traces of this cultural golden age.

Rouch himself directed the institute between 1959 and 1969, where many of his old film reels are stored.

One, for example, is his famed "Cock-a-Doodle-Doo! Mr. Chicken," a comedy about a chicken salesman travelling Niger in his Citroen 2 CV.

Seyni Moumouni, current director of the IRSH, said few are interested in the reels.

"They're gathering dust because young people now prefer cassettes and DVDs," he told AFP.

Despite his successes, Rouch also came in for fierce criticism for his depictions of African traditions, which many saw as exoticising and patronizing.

"You look at us like insects," Senegalese film-maker Ousmane Sembene told him in 1965.

Rouch responded that he was "trapped between two colliding worlds", referring to his native France, and the Sahel countries it colonized.

A film expert in Mali's capital Bamako, who declined to be named, recognized that Rouch helped local film-makers, but said he was still a "product of his time".

However, Malian director Cheick Oumar Sissoko argued Rouch had made an important contribution simply by capturing what he did on film.

"The image itself is an extraordinary language which constitutes memory," Sissoko said.

At the film screening in Bamako, ethnic Dogons in attendance watched in awe.

The Sigui ceremony celebrates the regeneration of the life cycle and is one of the most important events in the Dogon calendar.

Festivities involving elaborate masks last for years. But the 60-year span between each Sigui meant that few in the audience had seen the ceremony themselves.

None said they had seen Rouch's film before either, a sign of his dwindling cachet.

Ali Dolo, a mayor from central Mali who fled to Bamako because of the conflict, cried out in recognition during one scene.

"That's my home," he said, telling AFP later that not much had changed since Rouch filmed it.

But for many, what has changed is the conflict, and a sudden lack of cultural funding.

"It's impossible to make films without help," said Djingarey Maiga, a Malian-Nigerien director.

He reflected on a time when Sahel directors would gather in a studio in the Musee de l'Homme, in Paris, which Rouch and other ethnographers had set aside for them.

"We film-makers from Niger and Africa used to go there to edit and mix our films," he said.



Hospital Clowns Bring Joy to Young Ukrainian Cancer Patients Who Survived Russian Missile Attack

Tetiana Nosova, who goes by the clown name of Zhuzha, a volunteer from the "Bureau of Smiles and Support" plays a ukulele as she stands with Michael Bilyk, who is held by his mother Antonina Malyshko, and Kira Vertetska, 8, at Okhmatdyt children's hospital in Kyiv, Ukraine, Thursday Sept. 19, 2024. (AP Photo/Anton Shtuka)
Tetiana Nosova, who goes by the clown name of Zhuzha, a volunteer from the "Bureau of Smiles and Support" plays a ukulele as she stands with Michael Bilyk, who is held by his mother Antonina Malyshko, and Kira Vertetska, 8, at Okhmatdyt children's hospital in Kyiv, Ukraine, Thursday Sept. 19, 2024. (AP Photo/Anton Shtuka)
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Hospital Clowns Bring Joy to Young Ukrainian Cancer Patients Who Survived Russian Missile Attack

Tetiana Nosova, who goes by the clown name of Zhuzha, a volunteer from the "Bureau of Smiles and Support" plays a ukulele as she stands with Michael Bilyk, who is held by his mother Antonina Malyshko, and Kira Vertetska, 8, at Okhmatdyt children's hospital in Kyiv, Ukraine, Thursday Sept. 19, 2024. (AP Photo/Anton Shtuka)
Tetiana Nosova, who goes by the clown name of Zhuzha, a volunteer from the "Bureau of Smiles and Support" plays a ukulele as she stands with Michael Bilyk, who is held by his mother Antonina Malyshko, and Kira Vertetska, 8, at Okhmatdyt children's hospital in Kyiv, Ukraine, Thursday Sept. 19, 2024. (AP Photo/Anton Shtuka)

Their costumes are put on with surgical precision: Floppy hats, foam noses, bright clothes, and a ukulele with multicolored nylon strings.
Moments later, in a beige hospital ward normally filled with the beeping sounds of medical machinery, there are bursts of giggles and silly singing.
As Ukraine´s medical facilities come under pressure from intensifying attacks in the war against Russia's full-scale invasion, volunteer hospital clowns are duck-footing their way in to provide some badly needed moments of joy for hospitalized children.
The "Bureau of Smiles and Support" (BUP) is a hospital clowning initiative established in 2023 by Olha Bulkina, 35, and Maryna Berdar, 39, who already had more than five years of hospital clowning experience between them. "Our mission is to let childhood continue regardless of the circumstances," Bulkina, told The Associated Press.
BUP took on new significance following a Russian missile strike on Okhmatdyt Children´s Hospital in Kyiv in July. The attack on Ukraine´s largest pediatric facility forced the evacuation of dozens of young patients, including those with cancer, to other hospitals in the capital - and the clowns did not stand aside.
Together with first responders, Berdar and Bulkina helped with clearing the rubble after the attack and attended to the children who were relocated to other medical facilities. But even for them, the real heroes there were young patients.
"When the children were evacuated from Okhmatdyt after the missile attack, many of them were in extremely difficult medical conditions, but even in this situation they tried to support the adults," said Berdar, recalling the events after the strike.
The hospital clowns, who use traditional clown noses and bright costumes, are now visiting multiple hospitals in the Ukrainian capital region, including the National Cancer Institute, where patient numbers have surged after the Okhmatdyt attack.
Tetiana Nosova, 22, and Vladyslava Kulinich, 22, are volunteer hospital clowns who go by Zhuzha and Lala and joined BUP more than a year ago. For them, hospital clowning is as challenging as it is rewarding.
"I volunteer so that children don´t think about their illness, even for a short moment, so that laughter replaces tears, and joy replaces fear, especially during medical procedures," Kulinich said. In her practice, she stays together with children, sharing all their feelings, whether they are fear, pain, or joy.
For Nosova, the process itself is what made her start clowning. "I am motivated by joy. I simply enjoy it. All my life I studied to be an actress, all my life I enjoyed making people laugh. That´s enough motivation for me," she said.
In a city grappling with nightly air raid alerts and power outages, overworked doctors say the presence of the volunteers brings a much-needed distraction, often helping children who had been undergoing painful medical treatment to feel happy again.
"Clowns play a very important role in the treatment of children. They help distract the children, they help them forget about the pain, they help them not pay attention to the nurses or doctors who come to treat them," Valentyna Mariash, a senior nurse on the Okhmatdyt cancer ward, told AP.
The July attack complicated treatment plans for many families. Daria Vertetska, 34, was in Okhmatdyt with her 7-year-old daughter, Kira, when the missile exploded just outside their ward. Kira, who was diagnosed with rhabdomyosarcoma of the nasopharynx, was asleep, medicated with morphine.
"It saved her that she was covered with a blanket during the strike, but still, her head, legs, and arms were cut with small glass shards," said Vertetska. She and Kira returned to Okhmatdyt in less than a week after the attack.
ot all the children returned to the hospital. Some stayed in the medical facilities where they had been evacuated, while others were moved to apartments paid for by charity organizations and located in the hospital´s vicinity.
Despite hospital clown initiatives like BUP across Ukraine, the need for their work grows exponentially. "When I see how our work is needed in the large children´s hospitals located in Kyiv, I can only imagine what a great need there is in regional and district hospitals, where such (clown) activity, as for example in Okhmatdyt, to be honest, simply does not exist," Berdar said.
The World Health Organization, earlier this month, warned that the country faces a deepening public health crisis, largely due to devastating missile and drone strikes on the country´s electricity system as well as hospital infrastructure.
Since the start of Russia´s full-scale invasion in February 2022, WHO has recorded nearly 2,000 attacks on Ukraine´s health care facilities and says they are having a severe impact.
Children are among the most vulnerable, but a mental health crisis affects the whole country. It means the clowns´ work has won broad support from medical professionals.
Parents are simply happy to see a smile return to their children´s faces.
"With clowns, children learn to joke, they play with soap bubbles, their mood lifts. Today, Kira saw clowns playing the ukulele, now she wants one, too," said her mother, Daria.